I feel divinity in my bones, aching like fire.
Once, we had craved the burn. Once, divinity stained our hands and mouths like pomegranate and cherry. We thought they could handle the scorch of heaven, but it merely turned our bones to ash before we were swallowed whole. We were reformed, molded clay, spit out by the sun, wine-bruised and needing.
Now, it is a burden, a misfortune, a trick of fate to be blessed, kissed by divine fire, cursed by celestial rain, to hang between mortal and immortal, monster and savior, angel and demon, god and devil.
We might not have been the first, but we were the last.
Every year, on the anniversary of the death of God, we meet in the place where it began.
Long ago, before the church, there had been a husk, a hull of a shelter where we fell in love. Now, it is a massive structure in the heart of León, a Cathedral, the humans call it. It is chilly despite the summer heat. Walls of gilded stone rise high above me, stone arches flowing to graceful points. As the sun slants in, the stained glass alights with heavenly fire. Or as close as it can. Amethyst and azure light give a nearby Mary statue a haunting look as she stares upward, her porcelain cheek adorned with a single waxen tear. The Rose Window glows, iridescent and shimmering, the focal point amidst the warm limestone. Glass-blown images of Bible stories cast jeweled shadows across the floor.
A tour group passes behind me, the warmth of their skin intoxicating. Humans with thrumming blood in their veins, eyes alight with awe and wonder as they take in human ingenuity. Each takes a turn by the altar rails in front of the crucifix, lighting votive candles with each other's flame. They begin to hum a soft hymn, one I surprisingly don’t know.
I’ve been coming here so long that I’m no longer shocked by the pure beauty of the Cathedral, but in the face of the awe, the beginnings of a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.
“Here to pray, Stranger?” A familiar voice drawls. A voice I would know even if deaf. The timbre of it I could mimic on a lyre, the cadence as even as a metronome.
I do not turn. “Are you?” I ask back, a game we’ve been playing for centuries.
“I cannot,” they say.
I breathe in the cool air laden with years of dust and relics before turning to face them. Today, they wear a male face. A priest by the looks of the collar strangling their throat. Their skin is sun-kissed and golden-brown, a mop of dark curls adorning their head, but it is their eyes that give them away. Deep and unwavering, the exact color of the depths of the Atlantic, they are volcanic obsidian with just the edges frothed with midnight blue.
I let my eyes fall closed. The spark of divinity, the barely there embers of what remains flare to life. When I look back at them I can see beyond it, through the human glamour, I see them. Their true face. Lacquered black skin, a fractured halo curving from their temples, more of a circle than mine, and of course, their wings. They shimmer, hidden from this plane of existence with a low burn of power, like a gaslamp left on during the night to scare away monsters.
Monsters like me.
“I believe it is your turn, or would you like me to do it?” They ask. Anyone else would think it was a kind gesture, but I see it as it is. A mockery of me and my choice to fall.
“I’d love to,” I say, flashing a smile I know is more demon than human.
Their ocean eyes narrow but they gesture for me to continue.
I draw in a deep breath and reach for the elusive spark that once burned my human flesh away. At one point, many millennia ago, it had raged on my very skin, it had traced its fingers over my hair, and caressed me like a lover. Now, it is a phantom heat, barely there.
But it is enough to entangle the fabric of this reality and I dig my heels in. The Cathedral blurs around us, hazy and soft around the edges and the world grinding to a slow halt. An icy coil circles around my ribs, constricts me. I push against it harder, try to bring the blaze to an inferno, but I’ve lost too much fire.
Then they’re in front of me, warm palm against my cheek and heat pours through me like a shot of whiskey. The ice recedes and for a moment, my embers burst into a wildfire. Enough to solidify this pause for our yearly conversation.
“Your fire is nearly out,” they say, shock and horror pinching their beautiful face. The human disguise has been sloughed off like a worn out coat leaving the angel I know.
I shake my head. “I know.” I turn from them, knowing what I must look like out of my human face. Ice-cold ivory skin, a severed halo cracked and broken, feathered wings hanging in tattered rags, half-rotten and stained with centuries old black blood. A demon that mirrors their holiness.
“Come home.” Their voice breaks and it takes all of my strength not to cry out as if pained. “Come home and quench your thirst.”
I lift my chin to the domed ceiling, toward the heavens we once called home. “You know I cannot.”
“If you’re worried about the others,” they begin, but I raise my hand and they fall silent.
“You know I am not. You know I made my choice and even if it kills me, I will not bow.”
“Always so stubborn.” They sound wistful, perhaps even a bit lovestruck, just like they always were. “Please, for me. Come home. Just long enough to survive until next year.”
I laugh, a broken croak of a sound. “You’re a fool,” I say to them. “Inviting the devil into the realm of the angels?”
“Even the devil deserves forgiveness.”
“Blasphemy in this place? You’ve gone soft,” I growl.
“May God smite me with lightning then.”
I look back at them, the starlight in their eyes, the elegant hands that have molded so much of our universe. I drink in the sight of them, knowing it is my last. “I never stopped loving you,” I say.
A piece of them breaks, I see it ripped out in their eyes. The hope I’ll relent to their pleading dimming until it is nothing but cold, flat open water. “I have and always will love you.” Their luminous wings spread wide, glistening with the heavenly fire I will never touch again. It’s almost blinding and it sends shockwaves of hunger through me. I may covet the divine light, but I cannot touch it, cannot cast aside my sins and regain my divinity.
This is the price I must pay in blood.
I leave before I break under their infallible resolution and love.
I’m going to be honest, I struggled with this one. I think when I have such a specific image in mind, I struggle to bring the descriptions that aren’t cliched. I have always been drawn to religious ~~aesthetic~~ and the idea of angels and demons. For me, I wanted to write about angels as the scary, crazy, fiery beings I’ve heard them being.
Look, I didn’t thoroughly research this piece beyond the León Cathedral (which I’ve visited before!) and I didn’t want to go too heavy with the church themes and aesthetics. I have lots of thoughts that kind of clouds my ability to write about religion and so I went a bit more ~~fantasy~~.
Idk man, angels are cool and fire keeps them alive, okay, that’s the extent of my worldbuilding for this.
Although, maybe one day I’ll return to write a philosophical novel about religion and angels and the current state of Christianity now to deal with my feelings about it. But for now, enjoy this flash fiction.
Commentaires